


Not Here and Not Now

by helens78



Category: Prison Break RPF
Genre: Dominance/submission, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-29
Updated: 2006-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-05 20:10:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/pseuds/helens78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wentworth is interested enough in Bill to make an offer.  Bill's the kind of guy who likes to do things his way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Here and Not Now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Telesilla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Telesilla/gifts).



Wentworth has never had a boyfriend. He's never had a girlfriend. What he's had are a lot of one-night stands, so he knows what it looks like when someone's interested-- and right now he's pretty sure that Bill is one of those someones.

Bill plays it close to the vest. He's friendly, open, easy to work with, but he doesn't watch people the way most guys do. His eyes don't track when someone hot walks by; he doesn't comment about anybody, on set or off.

But when the work's done, he makes a point of saying good night to Wentworth. He chats with him during downtime, jokes with him before the directors call 'action', gives him tips on authentic gun handling (not that Michael Scofield knows enough about guns to use those tips, but it's a nice gesture), grouses with him about the Mets. A lot of the guys don't want to get too close to Bill-- it's all about superstition, since his character's offed two of theirs so far and no one wants to be written out of the show-- but Wentworth isn't worried about job security.

If he were, he wouldn't be following Bill out to his car on a late, too-warm Monday evening. He wouldn't say, "I'm ready to give you something Michael won't give Mahone yet," and wait for Bill to bite.

"What's that?" Bill asks.

"An honest admission."

Bill's eyebrows go up. His head tilts back. He licks his lips, and Wentworth can't tell if he's seeing Bill's curiosity or Mahone's calculations in the gestures. That's fair. Maybe Bill can't tell if he's seeing Wentworth's interest or Michael's desire to play cat-and-mouse.

"I'm listening."

"I want you." Wentworth looks down Bill's body, down from the weathered cotton button-down shirt to the jeans and the cowboy boots Bill is just macho enough to carry off. By the time he convinces himself to look back at Bill's face, he's expecting a reaction.

Bill hasn't moved.

If he's trying to drag more out of Wentworth than an admission and a stare, he's doing a good job. The ball's still in Wentworth's court, and he suspects if the answer was "thanks, but no thanks," he'd have heard it by now.

So he's done talking. The direct approach seems a little more useful anyway.

He looks around to make sure they don't have potential gawkers. The parking lot's full of SUVs, the labyrinth of a modern-day parking lot, and it's easy to get lost between the Explorers and the Outbacks and the thousand other vehicles that will never see an unpaved road.

He drops to his knees as Bill gets his sunglasses out of his shirt pocket and slips them on. Wentworth can't see Bill's expression, but he notes the way Bill clenches and unclenches his hands, how his body goes rigid when Wentworth reaches up and unbuckles his belt, unsnaps his jeans, unzips his fly and then leans in and breathes. Bill smells like sweat, dust, and laundry soap, with maybe just a touch of leather and brass.

Wentworth nuzzles in harder, and Bill cups the back of his head, holding him in place. There's nothing for Bill to get a grip on, but his fingers rub hard against Wentworth's buzz cut and the back of his neck. Wentworth's breath is hot against Bill's fly, and Bill's getting harder with every exhalation.

"Let me," Wentworth murmurs. "I want you."

"I can tell," Bill says. His voice is hoarse, but he's managing to sound as casual as a guy can when his costar's kneeling and offering him a blowjob. He squeezes the back of Wentworth's neck, and Wentworth has to bite his lower lip hard to keep from groaning. "But not here. And not now." He lets go.

Wentworth could call his bluff. But _not here and not now_ means _later_. It means yes.

So, hard as it is, hard as he is, he stands up and looks at the asphalt while Bill zips his jeans back up and fastens his belt. He closes his eyes when Bill puts a hand on the back of his neck again.

"We're going to talk later," Bill promises. "Right now, you need to know one thing."

He could be a smartass. He could stick his tongue in his cheek and give a dozen different responses. All he wants to do, though, is stay quiet. Give the tone this evening's taken its proper respect. Give Bill the respect he's due.

He shivers hard and nods almost convulsively.

"Okay." He's glad he doesn't stutter it.

"I say when."

Again, Wentworth manages not to stutter. "Okay."

Bill lets him go, gets into his car, and drives away. Wentworth listens to it: the crunch of tires on broken asphalt, the acceleration, the way Bill's car disappears into the rush of traffic.

_I say when_, the words memorized against the backdrop of all those sounds and the fading orange and pink of sunset.

_-end-_


End file.
